This is something I have never posted on my blog before but I am very excited to for the first time. I did a collaboration with my friend John. I think it came out amazing as he did most of the forming of it adding our pieces together and it’s awesome! I’m really excited to share this piece with you guys and I really hope you enjoy it!
Here’s his link: https://wp.me/pbvYy3-9m
Walking me home
by John & Brittny
I was exhausted, in that “shaken like a rag doll” way you can only feel on a breezy street where the wind is blasting through tree branches and the night is trying to cry – almost wet, but not quite making that last windy speed bump over damp and cold.
I was on my way to somewhere. But all of my somewheres…
all of the somewheres I was reaching and hoping and stretching for…
all of the somewheres I stumbled over,
missed in the crowd,
lost in translation…
all of those somewheres were being blown apart by this breeze.
There was only one somewhere left, made all the more heroic now by the way the night had stolen all my other options.
But for all my lack of options, I wasn’t alone.
I felt something shadowing me, like claws on my shoulder. I felt the adventure again, no longer dented and twisted out of shape by all the tiny, lifeless things I’m still expected to read through, just to get me through a day that should always have touched me deeper.
I felt something chasing me home.
This was like a return to something – a reset of some kind. This was llike the days when a street like this would be everything, and somebody would be waiting at the other end with that massive expression on their face – the love look – as though everything worth having in the whole breeze-battered world had come together and fused itself a new star, simply because I showed up.
In this, even the touch of shadow claws felt somehow benevolent.
“I am woven out of trees and out of storm clouds and rain,” whispered the shadow tree.
“It wouldn’t make much sense otherwise but this is me.”
“I know that feeling,” I replied, I felt the shadows grin, the way only dark things do.
“I am woven out of the rain and into the rivers,” it said.
“I’m flowing along with you as you’re walking by.
You’re trying to piece this together… to belong… to make it make sense.”
“And failing,” I replied, suddenly faltering as the day’s complications spilled out across the breeze.
I stopped, holding myself in self-hug, like a broken bucket trying to plug the leak in its own tender fibre. I grabbed a handful of tree bark to steady myself and found only a deep, solid place in the darkness.
“It’s a beautiful creation, beautiful pause,” sang the whisper.
“Still, no matter what they say, I don’t believe I deserve you.”
It was like listening to a love song from a shadow; a new picture of me, painted in restless air.
“I wake up coming together,” it sang, “sewing myself back up.
I’m not so naive to believe this will make sense soon.
Still, I’m worth saving.”
Then the thunderclap:
“You are too.”
I had wanted whispers like this for so long. Not the constant stupid noise of words that lay claim to treasures beyond their reach. Not the scrape and scrawl of voices made thin and empty because all their shadows have been taken out.
One last verse echoed over the gathering roar of night winds in my ears:
“We are woven from storm clouds and rain.
We danced in the message we make like puddles of rain.
Mud splashing about and staining our legs, we can’t let go of who we were.
It’s beautiful still.”
With the shadow tree still holding my hand, I walked the last block home, knowing that home, for me, would never reach the door I was making for.
Dawning Creations 
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